


Imagines/Drabbles

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically just my imagines, Each chapter is tagged with characters, F/M, MORE LIKE SUPERNATURAL A/YOU, Some Fluff, Some angst, so far all are reader insert, some smut adjacent, supernatural au?, will update tags if that changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-06-19 17:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 15,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15514956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Things that I write when I am too lazy to write a whole thing.





	1. Dean x You : Catching you before bed

Your hand stayed on the door as you turned around to see what the noise was, only to be greeted with Dean about to go into his own room. He stops, a mirror image of you, one hand poised to open his door and the rest of his body facing your direction. You’re not sure if either of you could pull yourself away from this if you tried. 

It’s been over a week since you’ve been alone with him, you’d even hunted on your own this week, insisting there was a different case in a different state you just _had_ to look in to. But here? Now? Starring into his eyes across the hall, trying to count all the shades of green from a distance and failing, it’s difficult to remember why you’ve been using Sam as a human buffer.  

Oh yeah, that’s right. Because you admitted you had feelings for him and he walked away. 

As Dean starts walking now it’s not away, it’s towards you. Careful and measured steps like he’s scared to spook you. He might. You’re still frozen in place, the cold metal of the handle now warm under your palm. 

You push yourself back into the wood of the door as he reaches you, not afraid of him but afraid of this situation. 

“Bit late for a shower?” he asks standing inches from your body like this is the most normal conversation in the world. 

You look up at him, to be specific his lips, the bottom one he rakes his teeth over as he looks at you, and you let out a small puff of air as you reply, “I thought everyone was asleep.” 

Or to put it another way, you were still avoiding him. 

There’s just this noncommital noise in response, somewhere between a mumble and a growl as his fingers come up to your face to tuck damp strands of hair behind your ear. 

“Dean, I should…”

You trail off letting the silence hang in the air. You should go to sleep, you should back away. You shouldn’t let him in. 

And yet, when he finally leans in and presses his mouth to yours, patient and soft but with the promise of intensity as his tongue swipes over your lips, you sigh into his mouth. The anger and pain are gone. Nothing left but resignation that it took him a week to give you an answer. And obviously, that fluttering in your chest. 


	2. Sam x You : Cheesy pickup lines while you are at work.

“I’m not doing it, Dean.” 

“You like the girl right? Just go for it. I swear it works every time.” 

Sam glances over his shoulder briefly, in a totally not suspicious way. Yes, you were the cutest waitress he’d seen in a while and you’d smiled at him. That could have been you just doing your job, keeping the customers happy, but Sam thought it was more than that. He _hoped_ it was more than that. 

The only fly in the ointment was Dean, trying to convince Sam to use a line because he thinks his brother should live a little. The two of them will only be in town a few days so what’s the danger? 

“So have you boys decided what you want yet?” You reappear with that side glance grin just for Sam. 

Dean reels off his gargantuan order before unsubtly as possible, giving Sam a look that says, ‘just do it, you bitch’. 

“Um, I know what I want but… I didn’t see you on the menu.” 

He manages to commit to it leaning back with curled lips and his eyes roaming up and down your body suggestively. 

You tap your pen on your notepad with a raised eyebrow, it not being the first line you’ve heard today, “that’s because I am not a lunch special.” 

Sam’s cheeks burn at being shot down so matter of factly and his tall frame curls in on itself over the table. He quickly mumbles, “sorry, I’ll have the garden salad,” without looking back at you. 

He was cute despite his terrible line, you think to yourself as you put in their order. And when you’re watching him from the register, accidentally, you notice the funny way he keeps pursuing his lips at his friend. Even more so when you slide a greasy burger onto the table. That’s pretty cute too. 

You don’t know what it is about him but you end up slipping the check in his direction when you take it over, making sure your hand brushes his for all of a second. 

Sam opens it to read a scrawled note on the bottom.

_**I could be a dinner special though.**_ Along with your number. 

Sam kicks Dean under the table when he hears, “told you it’d work.” 


	3. Dean x You : Playing charades with your idiots.

“Why do you look so intense? Is this film about a constipated baby? Because I don’t know any!” You’re about to ask Cas if any even exist, maybe ‘Baby’s Day Out’, when you hear it.

Dean grumbles, “no,” under his breath.

“You’re not supposed to talk!” You cry out as your eyebrows reach dizzying new heights. 

Sam genuinely looks at Dean like he has ruined the game and you find yourself rushing to reassure him with a wave of your hand, “just carry on but no talking, or we might suspect your team is cheating.”

Cas is sitting forward with his elbows resting on his knees when he leans closer to you, “Y/N when I spoke Dean insisted I had to pick a new movie from the bowl.”

You turn to Cas but not so much that Dean can’t see your shit-eating grin, “yes but we aren't sore losers like he is. Just let him finish, he’s doing terribly anyway.“

That sparks something in Dean who, after eyeballing the timer launches into, well, _something dramatic_.

First Dean sits down and starts pointing at his feet.

You shout, “big feet? Something about bigfoot? Harry and the Hendersons?!”

There’s shaking hands now and he jumps up and mimics walking on the spot. Then he points at Sam, who is trying to guess himself, and continues walking now but swishing imaginary long hair. Then he stops and starts firing imaginary arrows.

“Robin Hood, Prince of thieves? Robin Hood, men in tights? Oh… oh ROBIN HOOD THE DISNEY VERSION?”

Dean growls, which you suppose you can let go since it’s not technically a word, and starts scrambling looking for something he can use as a clue. Sam looks like he’s beginning to realize that he won’t be winning a point for his team this round.

Cas is still poised next to you, thoughtful and stoic, and you’re wondering when his pop culture knowledge is going to kick in. Unlike the cheating Winchesters, your team did _really_ need this point.

Dean spots what he needs on your hand and snatches at you, grabby hands sliding the ring off of your finger.

He holds it up like he’s in the lion king and gestures wildly. It clicks but in that split second you know Sam has it too.

You both jump to your feet and shout, “LORD OF THE RINGS,” in unison but your eyes are wild as you point at Sam accusingly and add, “…the fellowship of the ring.”

He seems to mull it over before he declares himself, “…the return of the king.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Cas open his mouth and somehow you just know he’s going to try and say the two towers but you glance at him and mutter threateningly, “don’t.” You’ve played against the Winchesters enough to know that they’ll use any excuse to steal victory from you. Even daring to claim that Cas’s answer overrules yours.

Finally, all eyes are on Dean again. His shoulder slump and he sighs all defeated, “she’s right.”

You pump your fists in the air before holding your hand out for him to return the gold band to your possession. “You should know by now that I’m always right.”

He huffs but there's a sly smile at the corners of his mouth. He leans in stealing a chaste kiss and whispering, “yes dear,” as he slides it back on for you.

Sam tells him not to fraternize with the enemy before their next turn.


	4. Cassifer x You : You've been keeping something from him.

The blue of his eyes bore into you. Not that they are Cass blue, no these are all Lucifer. Darker, swirls of inky night sky swim among the normally pristine hue. 

With each difference that you notice it becomes more and more laughable that he pretended to be Cass for so long. And got away with it. 

The biggest difference though was the way those eyes stared at _**you**_. Cass never looked at you the way Lucifer did. Cass never looked at you with so much intensity that you felt like your body might set alight if stared a second longer. 

And if Lucifer’s holy fire did set you aflame you knew you’d ask him to do it all over again. 

However the look on his face right now is different, no less burning but different. 

Had it been Cass you might mistake it for disappointment

On Lucifer? Well on Lucifer you wouldn’t dare to presume what that face means, even inside your own head. An assumption alone would be enough to get you into trouble. 

“Y/N, what am I going to do with you?” After what feels like a lifetime he _finally_ leans in, his index finger settling perfectly in your cupids bow like you’re a thing he’s inspecting as he continues to chastise you, “I thought you’d learned your lesson pet. All that time I dedicated to training you, obviously I expected too much.”

Sudden panic takes hold of you causing a familiar warmth along your inner thighs.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was trying to protect you.”

He pulls back and your body craves his touch again instantly but he hasn’t turned away from you, so you know he’s not done yet. Your eyes fall the floor, like you know he’d want, while he ponders something. 

“Oh pet, if you’re busy trying to protect me then just who is going to protect you?”


	5. Sam x You : Picking you up when you're drunk.

Every brain cell, every spare synapse was focused on one, simple thing. Not looking like you were drunk.

This was a honed skill. You’d had pretty conservative parents and many teenage years of being picked up from friends or getting home to find them in the living room had made you an expert at this game of pretend. You’re pretty sure that to this day they have no idea about the schnapps-a-palooza that happened at the spring fling.

So yeah you had this under control. This was just as easy no matter how much alcohol you had imbibed. Just one foot in front of the other. No, wait. Lift your leg a little slower otherwise it seems out of control. Yes, now stop and blink. Not drunk people blink more, probably. No, you need to open your eyes again otherwise this is sleep, not a blink.

“Y/N, are you ok?”

Shit. Ok don’t panic, you’re not busted yet. Just take a deep breath. Let the cool night air keep you steady. You just need to open your mouth, yes that’s where all those shots went in, and say something that isn’t stupid. Like, ‘ok’, just say that you are ok and then you can finish getting into the car.

“I have never been more f-i-n-e in my life, Sammy Sam Samuel.”

You fucking idiot. Don’t panic. You can save this. Just get into the car and he’ll stop looking at you. Once you’re in the backseat he’ll be driving and won’t be able to pay attention to you. No, do not try and get in the passenger seat because Dean isn’t here. Nope, not that door the next one.

Why are you sitting in the passenger seat?

“Seriously, how wasted are you?”

You don’t need to open your mouth that big to be shocked at his accusation. Close it a little more. Ok, let’s try this one more time. Just make a joke. You can do that, you’ve done it in your sleep before. Possibly. Just go nice and slow and think about the words before you say them.

“Wasted? The only thing wasted is the thing that I dropped earlier. I’m never drinking. Everything is good.” The ‘good’ is all drawn out as if the rest of your words weren’t a dead giveaway to your state.

So, he’s looking at you weird now. Damn his face is pretty. Ha ha, pretty dumb. God, you couldn’t say that joke out loud? Any joke would have been better than the words you’d just spewed. Nope. Don’t think about spewing that’s not a good train of thought. Just focus on how comfortable this seat is. Isn’t it nice to be sitting down?

But Sam is doing that face of his, the one he usually reserves for Dean when something stupid is happening.

Ok, you can comment on it but don’t touch…

You reach out for his face, wrapping your fingers around his chin and grabbing it with more force than is necessary, while your voice is an attempt at humor. “Don’t bitch face me, Samantha, nobody asked you to come and get me.”

Well done. That was a coherent sentence at least.

“Actually you did. You called me and said that the music had ‘gone bad’,” he actually makes air quotes, showing off his fancy dexterity, la-de-da king sober. “and could I come and get you.”

You could probably let go of his face now. Because he was right, maybe. You didn’t remember calling but you did remember being very, very annoyed about something so _perhaps_ he isn’t lying. You’re still holding his face though.

“Ok, fine pretty boy. Take me home but then I’m gonna braid your hair.”

Your brain doesn’t even have a moment to process your own words before his face crinkles, “what?”

“You, hair, me, hit it handsome.” You finally let go of his face to wag a finger between you both. The finger is pretty wobbly.

The Impala engine rumbles the seat underneath you and it only makes you dizzy for, like, a few minutes. Tops. As predicted Sam doesn’t look at you much while he’s driving, that you notice anyway. He’s inclined to watch the road for safety or whatever. You’re inclined to focus on one specific spot on the dash because watching the moving roads outside is not an option.

He helps you into the bunker and to your room when you get back. Not that you needed help, you’re a strong, independent woman, but he was very convenient to lean on when you almost fell a few times. He leaves you aspirin and a glass of water by your bed, that’s after he makes you drink a glass before he’ll leave you alone. Like you’re a baby. Which you are not a baby but you’ll tell him that tomorrow. When he does leave you slip out of your clothes and slide into your sheets, your last thought being that you didn’t braid his hair but one day you would.

It’s only the next morning, when your pounding head forces you awake, that you feel any sense of appreciation for the pills he left. You swallow them eagerly before stumbling out of your room looking like a documentary example of an early cavewoman. Your hair is a big tattered mess, you’re pretty sure the mascara you didn’t remove has created a panda style halo around your eyes and yes, you are most certainly wearing sweats and a shirt that you picked up from your bedroom floor. And no you don’t know how long they were on the floor for.

Sam is sitting in the library with a cup in his hands and another mug sitting beside him. His face brightens when he sees you, which should be impossible considering the state of you, but then he speaks and it all becomes clear, “so you think I’m pretty?”

“What?” you croak, horrified. Torn between desperately wanting the coffee he’s made and also wanting to return to bed for another decade.

He smirks knowingly, “can’t forget handsome, you think I’m handsome too.”


	6. Dean x You : Ignoring you until suddenly, he's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut adjacent

You’d been trying all freaking day.

Sam was out doing whatever he did in his free time. Ask no questions and all that. You didn’t care. In fact not having him here had been integral to your original plan.

It had been two weeks and three days since Dean had fucked you and frankly, you were getting tired of the drought. It wasn’t planned or anything. It’s not like you’d discussed going two weeks and three days without sex. Who would even have that conversation?

Life is just a bitch sometimes and she gets in the way.

It had started with some really tough hunts. The sort of hunts where you get back to a shitty motel at one in the morning so there’s only one room left and you’re sharing with Sam. Not that you’d be thinking about sex at that point, in fact, the only thing the three of you do is argue about who gets to shower first in the morning.

Even when the hunt had been close by enough that you’d made it back to the bunker there’s nothing sexy about picking entrails off of each other.

That explained the first week at least, maybe ten days give or take. Not that you were counting or anything. But now? Now it felt like he was actually avoiding it, you.

Today specifically he had to be testing you right? There was just no other explanation. Nobody was this slow on the uptake.

He’d been out of bed before you’d woken up, which was weird on a normal day but it was even weirder considering you’d worn your sex underwear to bed. That’s a green flag for starting the day off right if ever there was one. Then at breakfast, you’d sat opposite him and done filthy things with the syrup on your french toast. We’re talking hollow cheeks, sticky fingers and sounds that his favorite porn stars make. Nothing. You straight up asked him to shower with you after that, on account of you being all syrupy still, and he’d barely looked up from his laptop when he told you he already showered while you were still in bed.

Did your vagina suddenly hold no lure for Dean Winchester? Because you did not get that memo.

You powered through though. You were nothing if not a trooper. You’d snuggled up to him while you both spent the afternoon watching Netflix, before pressing your lips to the shell of his ear and, as sultry as possible, asked him if he wanted to _chill_ now.

The NOT fucker said he wanted to finish the episode he was watching, and then turned the volume up a few notches.

You were at the end of your rope. At this point, either Dean sexed you up nice and rightly or you’d be moving back into your own room for the night and taking care of the situation yourself. You had the tools it was just much more fun with a friend.

So now you’re standing at the entrance to the goddamn Dean cave, where you’ve already been rejected once today. And you’re flushed with anger and frustration and _need_. The shirt of his that you’ve been wearing all day, seriously how many clues did the guy need, is pooled on the floor around your feet where you’ve very matter of factly taken it off. Since he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to play then you’re not going to mess around either.

It’s just you and your aforementioned sex underwear. Black and lacey because you’re classy, obviously. You have a hand on your hip, an eyebrow raised to the freaking heavens and a pout on your lips. Dean used to love your pout.

“Are you ever going to fuck me again or not?”

Fanfares sound out and blessed light shines down, making him look like a damn renaissance oil painting, because Dean Winchester _finally_ tears himself away from the TV to look at you.

It only takes a second of recognition on his part. His lips curl slightly as he speaks and his eyes, which rake over you as thoroughly as you’d like his hands to, are blown to the point that there’s nothing left but a slither of his signature green.

“You realize Sammy is in his room right? Has been all day?”

Embarrassment immediately washes over you only to be immediately outweighed by relief as he starts moving towards you. It’s the relief that makes you bold enough to let out a raspy, “so?” when his hands settle on your hips. His thumbs rubbing circles into your skin just above the silky black material.

“So,” he mimics you, tongue darting over his dry lips. “We should shut the door at least.”

Goddamnit this is all you’ve wanted for two weeks and three days. He knows it. He’s taking his time and dragging it out but you’re so on edge that you’re already soaked from the sound of his voice. Your body is already humming. Your voice already begging as you lean up onto your toes to press a desperate kiss to his lips, “just get on with it Winchester. I’ve waited long enough.”

To be precise you’ve waited two weeks, three days and now, twenty-one hours.


	7. Dean x You : Finding out you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Dean had lost count of how long he’d loved you for and all the reasons why. He loved the way that you drank tea instead of coffee in the mornings, and not just because the coffee didn’t run out as fast. He loved the way you called Sam a nerd even though you’d gladly help with the research because you were also a giant dork. He especially loved that twisty thing you did with your tongue around his… you get the idea. He loved you.

He especially loved that after all the time you’d spent together, all those drunken nights pretending to play truth or dare when really you were just telling each other your secrets freely, that you still surprised him. Just last week he’d found out that you hated white chocolate. Because, in your words, “it brings shame to the good name chocolate.”

Today was slightly different. You were sitting on the sofa nursing an iced tea with your feet in his lap. He was absentmindedly tracing circles into the parts that he knew were particularly ticklish while he flicked through TV channels with the remote in his other hand.

He’s getting into the channels that only show reruns of things that are at least 10 years old when music starts coming out of the screen. It’s some old documentary about the Beatles and he lingers on it for a second, to identify the song obviously, before carrying on his wayward TV journey.

Then you speak up. “Oh wait, go back, I want to see if they mention Billy Shears.”

He’s genuinely curious when he asks, “who?” Obviously, he has no idea about the pandora’s box of crazy he’s about to unleash from the woman he loves.

You don’t look away from the screen, waiting for him to go back, as you answer matter of factly, “oh you know, fake Paul.”

He bites. For some stupid reason, he takes the bait and runs with it, “fake Paul?”

Actually turning to him now you cock your head like he’s the absurd one for not knowing this fundamental fact of the universe, “Paul McCartney died in 1966. They hired a fake Paul, Billy Shears, to play the part ever since. As if real Paul would clash with Yoko and start _Wings_.”

Your emphasis on ‘Wings’ makes it seem like that’s the only offensive thing that came out of your mouth.

He knew you believed things easier than some. Whenever they’d come up against something ridiculous or crazy, even for them, you were always the first one to jump on board. He just assumed it was a learned habit in their line of work. He’d just thought that his badass girl had a soft spot for the insane.

He didn’t realize you actually _were_ insane.

You’re still staring at him but all he manages is a stumped, “baby, that’s a conspiracy theory.” Like that would make you crack and tell him he’s being punk’d.

“Psssh. So the fact that if you play ‘A Day in the Life’ backwards it says ‘Paul is dead, miss him, miss him’, means absolutely nothing I suppose?”

You look back to the TV even though it’s still stopped on some rerun of the Golden Girls while he stammers silently. Oh fuck. What if you’re a flat-earther? Or a Scientologist? Oh God, is he fucking a sexy Tom Cruise?

“This is a joke right?” He’s begging. Fuck it, he’s praying. All the dick angels in heaven, let this be a joke.

You take another sip of your iced tea, laughing at a classic Dorothy line before you deign to answer him, “Yeah sure. I bet you think we landed on the moon too?”


	8. Sam x You : Seeing the smile Sam keeps just for you.

It had been late in the day the first time you’d seen it. You and Sam had both been in the library on your respective laptops. Sometimes dredging the news for cases felt like a full-time job but somebody had to do it. Or more specifically the two of you had to do it. You’d been sitting opposite each other as you often did. It was unspoken but you both enjoyed the drama of spinning your laptop around triumphantly when you found something.

It’s the little things in life sometimes.

But instead of a case you’d turned your screen to show him a video you’d found of a cat that made a weird noise like an electric toothbrush and you’re laughing before you show him, and then laughing as you show him, and laughing still when you spin your laptop back and catch sight of it frozen on your screen again.

That’s the moment you look up and, accidentally, see it.

You’d like to think you know all of Sam’s smiles, not because you’re desperately in love with him or anything, you just kept tabs because friends do that right?

The one he keeps for Dean is wide and childlike, a little brother who still looks up to his big brother after all these years. Sam has a smirk, wry and small for Cass, a man still amused by his angel friend. Recently there’s been two new additions to the catalog. A half smile he only uses on Jack, it’s a mix of pride and curiosity. And then the smile he reserves for Mary, it’s complete and utter awe. That one never fails to break your heart from the sheer purity of it. The lost child who finally found her.

None of those are what’s on his face when your eyes steal away from the cat video.

It’s this grin. It starts small like Cass’s smile but blooms into something else. Something less sarcastic. It ends all wide like Dean’s smile but softer at the edges somehow. The dimples in his cheeks are lighter. His eyes crinkle like they do when he’s smiling for Mary but it’s not awe that grabs at his cheeks, it’s endearment.

You become obsessed with finding out where this smile came from. As a good friend, of course, it’s important to keep track of things like this.

You spend days trying to see it again. No video, no joke brings it out. No TV show he watches, no book he reads. The mystery just goes on and on until a week later and Dean is driving you all back from a hunt. You’d fallen asleep in the backseat, as was your one privilege of sitting in the back on your own, except you’re not quite all the way there. You’re drifting in and out of consciousness when Sam leans over from the front to tuck a blanket around you, and then it’s there again. That smile you’ve been trying to coax out of him for a week.

In your sleepy state, it’s much easier to accept what you’d never fully believe awake.

Maybe that smile’s for you and maybe it’s a secret. 


	9. Dean x You : A secret that you've never told him.

The motel door slamming behind you is the most satisfying sound you could ask for. There’s not even anyone inside you just need something to release some of the frustration bubbling away under your skin.

You know you’re pissy today, you know why you’re pissy and you know, logically, you have no reason to be pissy. Unfortunately, for the rest of the world, your self-awareness does nothing to ease your mood.

It wasn’t always like this. You normally have a much better handle on things, on yourself. There’s a reason you never tell anyone, you don’t want a fuss. But today is kind of a big one and something feels missing. A wave of anxiety about letting this one go unmarked puts you more on edge. But then you’d have to admit what today is and endure everyone knowing ever after. And so the cycle begins again.

“I’m not paying for a new door, sweetheart.” Dean is standing with his duffle hitched over his shoulder while Sam _gently_ closes their own motel room.

You know he’s teasing you but it’s your inner bitch that answers him, “they got a problem, I’ll take care of it.” You grind out the words in a tone that hopefully tells him to leave you alone.

You don’t see the look he gives Sam as the younger trails behind him to the Impala. The look that clearly says, ‘what the fuck?’ If you did you’d already be halfway into an argument by now. Instead, you forcefully shove your bag into the trunk, leaving it open for them, and confine yourself to the backseat while Dean checks you all out.

They wisely leave you alone on the two-hour drive back to the bunker. The conversation they do have, amongst themselves, only further annoys you for reasons you can’t explain. It doesn’t take long for you to put in your headphones and become frustrated at your own playlists, none of which are quite scream-y enough for your current tastes. 

At dinner, which you refused twice initially, you stay quiet. Even though one of them has gone to the burger place you like and got your favorite fries. The salty goodness does nothing except makes your mouth water. And that’s a physical reaction you just cannot control in the presence of perfectly fried potato. The grey cloud that’s been hovering over you, however? That sticks around.

They don’t give you a choice when they tell you that you’re all watching a movie after. Well they do, they make you choose a movie. You’re so over this social time that you pick _The Addams Family Values_ simply because you want to see the scene where the entire house explodes on Fester’s birthday. You want to see it and dream that it’s you.

You’d forgotten how funny the movie is though, in your opinion better than the first, and you slip up laughing a few times. You miss the shared smiles between the brothers everytime you do.

When it gets to the scene where Debbie has them all tied to up and is monologuing about her ballerina Barbie Dean chuckles before it even gets to the punch line. Somehow that’s the last straw. As calming as the film has been you twist your head from where you’re sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, you’d refused to sit squashed between them, and you growl, “what’s so funny?”

He’s still grinning innocently as he answers you, “just wondering if that’s what happened to you princess. Did you want a Barbie that you never got?”

You jump up like you’d been electrocuted, which it felt like you had. “What?”

“Well it’s your birthday, right? S’why you’ve been such a bitch today?”

He has the gall to be fucking nonchalant. Sam hisses a “Dean!” like it was some secret that Dean wasn’t supposed to expose.

Sam is absolutely right.

You don’t know if you’re more furious or embarrassed but you settle for the former. “Fuck off, Dean,” comes out of your mouth before you storm off to your room, leaving the film playing and the taste of your favorite fries still at the back of your mouth.

Thirty minutes later there’s a knock, it’s soft and quiet so you obviously expect to see Sam on the other side of your door. What you get is Dean with fucking cake in his hands and an almost sheepish smile.

“We were gonna surprise you after the movie,” he answers your unasked question about the layers of pink cake and funfetti frosting in his hands. Simultaneously you feel horribly guilty and begrudgingly relieved.

Confused takes the wheel though, “I never told you what today was.”

He shoves one of the plates of cake into your hands, “it doesn’t take a genius to see the pattern, we’re _hunters_. Every year like clockwork you get like this. ‘sides Sam did a little internet digging to confirm.”

Your smile it watery as he invites himself in and plops down on the end of your bed. You blink it away as you sit opposite him.

He swallows a mouthful of cake with a satisfied grin before his voice makes you look up from your untouched slice, “make a wish.”

“Oh my God. Are you trying to Sixteen Candles me?”

He laughs at your reaction and shrugs, “shut up and play along.”

“I’m 30, you idiot.”

“No, your line is, ‘it already came true’ then you flutter your eyelashes and we kiss.” He’s done his research clearly.

You roll your eyes but your cake is already safely on the cabinet beside your bed while you do the slow motion lean in.


	10. Sam x You : Going to the chapel and we're gonna get married.

“Doesn’t this all seem a little Deja vu to you, Sammy?”

Sam, unable to keep the smile from his face wrinkles just his forehead in confusion, “what are you talking about?”

“Well, Vegas? Quickie wedding you didn’t tell me about until five minutes ago? I swear if a stalker walks in right now…” Dean smirks knowingly.

“It’s Y/N, this is completely different. For starters, she hasn’t drugged me.”

“Only for starters?”

Sam’s face finally drops and he purses his lips, “yes. Secondly, I asked her. The quickie Vegas wedding was the only way I could convince her.”

Dean frowns at that admission. He knew that you were a little bull-headed sometimes, a bit like him. But the idea that maybe you didn’t really want to marry his little brother worried him.

Sam sees the look on Dean’s face and is quick to clarify, “she said Winchester’s end up doing the dumbest things she’s ever seen and she didn’t want to give up her common sense.” He has a faraway look in his eyes like he’s remembering, with utter fondness, the woman he loves to call him and his brother an idiot.

For a moment Dean really does wonder if Sam’s been drugged but he continues to press the issue like any best man would do, “so, why so desperate to put a ring on it?”

Marriage wasn’t exactly in the Winchester wheelhouse. Sam had a committed relationship with you and since you weren’t the one dropping hints Dean was curious why it was Sam that’s apparently pushing the issue.

“I love her. This is what normal people do when they love someone.” Sam’s voice is desperately small as he speaks, reminding Dean that his baby brother once had a shot at normality, however short-lived. This has, maybe, been something Sam has always wanted, deep down under the fifty thousand layers they’ve been through.

“We’re not exactly normal.” You speak up from behind them both, grinning ear to ear at the pair of them.

Sam turns at the sound of your voice, taking a cliche but utterly necessary moment to look you over. He’d be mad that he missed you walking down the short aisle except he much prefers that you’re already next to him, where he wants you always.

“Good thing too since you’re already making dumb decisions Mrs. Winchester.” Sam’s takes both of your hands in his and he presses kisses to your knuckles when you smile.

You take your own moment to look up at him, Sam, your very soon to be husband. He has his hair tucked behind his ears like you often do for him, he’s in a suit that should be illegal for how form fitting it is and he’s looking at you with the same beaming happiness he throws your way when you’ve just ganked something bad. You come to the conclusion that this might be the sanest thing you’ve ever done, and you have health insurance.

“Well, since you’re already mine I guess we should make this official.” You wink playfully but all your attempts to joke are thwarted by the blush on your cheeks.

Dean knows then, by the look on your face, that he had nothing to worry about.


	11. Dean x You : Watching Dean become Michael!Dean

Jack’s shoulder trembles beneath your hand in a way which only you can feel. To the untrained eye, the only thing wrong with him is the blood that streaks his face but you know there’s more to deal with, and how comforting he finds a physical touch. Like always, when it comes to looking after your boys, they each have a piece or two that they only allow you to see.

In contrast to Jack’s fear, Sam shudders in relief beside you, looking lighter than you’ve ever seen him before. Then again you’ve never met the version of Sam that didn’t think he’d only been born as Lucifer’s meat suit. The archangels death has broken the hard shell surrounding Sam leaving a creamy, gooey center. A whole new man born in a few seconds.

Then there’s Dean.

Dean flashes a smile and for a second it looks like he’s allowing himself some rarely enjoyed relief. He just had a win. A pretty major win. A _save the world_ win. 

It’s your own fault for letting your guard down along with him and believing that, this once, you all walk away with smiles on your faces.

Cold fear creeps up your spine and an ache spreads through your gut at the sight of his struggle. It’s a fight you can’t help with and even if you could, it’s over before you’re able to move one foot in front of the other.

The way he stares at you when his back straightens tricks you into believing it’s still Dean. At first anyway. It’s a glare steeped in that patented Dean desperation you’re used to seeing when he’s trying to communicate without words. His eyes are red but the green seems to stop time infinitely until you get the message. _Stay behind Sam. Stay back. Stay.  
_

You’ve been in enough near-death situations by now to know the drill. Dean will try to stop you from doing the thing, you’ll do the thing anyway if it’ll save him, or anyone else, and then you both continue the dance. The day is saved. He gets mad. You get mad because he’s mad and then you both get over it. Most importantly neither of you talks about the tension that exists behind the way you speak to each other.  _  
_

Of course, that’s not what he’s saying here nor is it even Dean that you can’t look away from. Maybe the message you think you’re reading is just residual Winchester, a shadow of what was that you’re projecting for him.

Or maybe, maybe the look is actually Dean. Maybe it’s his last stand. Maybe his final fight against the archangel is to look at you like _that_ , in hopes that this is the time that you’ll listen. That theory is as much a pipe dream as Dean ever hoping you’ll stay put.

Suddenly the moment is broken without the fanfare you’ve built up around it. Dean, or Michael in Dean’s body, breaks eye contact to examine the broken building you’re all standing in, without acknowledging the importance of what just happened. Your mind wants to call it angelic the way he looks around. His eyes are wide, his face open and receptive, a picture of wonder. But nothing about Michael is the peaceful portrait of saintliness that his measured movements would have you believe.

Sam barely had a minute of freedom before he’s hard again. “Michael” spoken from his lips as if it were a curse.

And then, finally, Michael turns Dean’s face ugly with his holy arrogance. A steely set of features that don’t suit Dean in its lack of human emotion.

“Thanks for the suit.”

“Dean!” You call out at the same time as the sound of fluttering wings fills the lofty space. You know it’s not Dean and you can tell yourself until you’re blue in the face but knowing something and feeling something are completely different beasts.

 


	12. Dean X You: Finding one of Dean's allergies

If you’re honest you can’t remember the last time someone brought you flowers. Maybe some guy gave you a rose in high school or something? Whatever. It never bothered you not to get flowers before and it doesn’t now, but it’s still nice to walk around your motel room and see the still wrapped sunflowers balanced in the sink. They’re bright and colorful, unlike the Rugaru you killed last night, and damn if they don’t make you smile.

Sam had teased you when Dale, the guy you’d saved, gave them to you all pink-cheeked and shy smiles. At lunch when he jokingly told Dean about your new boyfriend, you’d punched Sam in the arm while Dean grumbled about it being a team effort.

You had planned on leaving the flowers behind but as you exit the motel it doesn’t seem right. The thought of them in your room back home, brightening your space in the bunker, puts the dumbest smile on your face.

Which is how you end up sliding into the back of the Impala with your sunflowers in your arms like you might hold a small child. Sam is still checking out and you’re ghosting your hand over the yellow petals deftly.

_Sneeze._

You snap your head up towards Dean, but he looks unmoved as if it hadn’t happened. Maybe you imagined it.

_Sneeze._

This time you catch him with his hand to his nose and for some reason you remember him muttering in the diner about Dale being a stupid name. You angle the sunflowers a little closer. Big faker that he is.

_Sneeze._

This time you say, “bless you.” It’s an automatic reaction even if you do think he’s doing this on purpose.

_Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze._

The force of the fabled triple sneeze makes his head flop back and forth like a bobblehead.

“Ok, now you’re just attention seeking.”

“Nope. That’s it. The flowers have to go.” His voice is groggy, like someone who’s just sneezed a bunch of times might be. You’re still not convinced though.

“Like hell, you’re throwing these out. You’re just jealous because I’m the one with a fan club.” If you could cross your arms without crushing the flowers in question you would, instead, you settle for a cocked eyebrow.

Dean spins around, one arm balanced on the back of his seat and smugness plastered on his perfect face. He’s all big and dramatic as he sucks in a whole lung full of air in hideous slow motion.

Your hand whips out, your thumb and finger pinching his nose tight, “if you sneeze again I will kill you.”

There’s a tense beat. Everything rests on these next few seconds.

But of course, you hadn’t accounted for the fact that you’ve just shoved the fingers that were cradling your sunflowers directly under his nose.

Sam slips into the passenger seat in time to witness a sneeze so forceful that you’d swear the windows shake.

“Sorry Y/N, forgot to tell you. Dean’s allergic.”


	13. Sam x You : The first time Sam is really mad at you

Sam had the best bitch face you’d ever seen. It was so enjoyable to look at that sometimes you spent days orchestrating the perfect situation with which to provoke those pursed lips. Although at this point in your relationship he was usually already aware of your shenanigans and you’d see the corners of his mouth twitch where he’d resist smiling. He was just happy to play along and give you what you want. Even if all you wanted was his bitch face.  A label given without his consent, he hastens to add whenever it’s brought up.

That being said Sam had a look of ‘looks’. In another life he might have been a male model, using his puppy dog eyes for when he’s really trying to sell a pair of underwear or something. You bet he’d look fantastic in black and white plastered over Times Square for Calvin Klein.

There was one look in particular that you’d seen but not received. In your head, you called it ‘sam smash’ but never out loud because he was always at breaking point when this particular expression came out of the box. You’d seen Dean crumble under the steely eyes of sam smash in seconds. You’d seen Sam use the face on monsters before and that was when the bad guy would realize how very _over_ the entire situation was. It was the look that made monsters fear Sam fucking Winchester.

You hadn’t intended to make him angry today. It wasn’t one of the games you play sometimes. In fact, the whole thing was a bit of an accident. You’d driven further than normal, a couple of towns over, for the fancy grocery store. You’d had plans on making something special for dinner. It had been a dull few days in the bunker with not much to do and you’d ended up down a pretty deep Pinterest hole when you’d seen a recipe that made your mouth water. So obviously you had to make it that very night.

It’s not like you’d been looking for the hunt.

You’d been smelling cheeses in an attempt to pretend you knew what you were doing when you’d first seen him. The guy at the counter who had no idea about customer service. He’s being rude to some poor, older woman who doesn’t have it in her to tell him off. It’s only as you’re paying for your own items that you see it, in the security camera screen behind the counter, his eyes.

There went your evening plans.

There was nothing you could do until you got back to your car anyway because the gun tucked at your hip has regular ol’ not-silver bullets loaded. Useless.

You call Sam as soon as you’re out of the door, obviously. And he sounds worried but you promise him it’s one little punk ass shifter. Bing bang silver bullet to the heart and it’ll be done. It’s not like it’s your first rodeo. You reason with him that it’ll be more suspicious if you sit in your car waiting for half an hour while they get here. Plus the store’s empty, there’s no better time. You’d chalked it up to be more of a chore than a hunt.

Clearly, you had no idea about the two others in the back of the store. Even though you managed to kill cashier-of-the-year and the first one to come running out from the back, number three got the jump on you. Literally, she jumped on your back and knocked you out cold.

Whatever happens next is one of those mysteries you won’t ever feel the need to solve. All you know is you wake up with Sam’s hands cupped around your face as he’s muttering for you to wake up. You can hear Dean’s voice too somewhere but you don’t see him. Sam is right there though, almost nose to nose with you as your eyes flutter open and his face splits into a relieved smile.

You’re a little busted up. The bitch had apparently been mad about you killing her friends. There are cuts over your chest that don’t really start stinging until you see them. And you must be bleeding from somewhere on your neck because Sam’s hands are painted crimson when he pulls away from you to help finish the job of freeing you.

Sam drives you and your car home and Dean burns the now dead guys out back before riding home in Baby. You get stitched up, bandaged and Sam even puts away all the myriad of ingredients you’d bought so nothing spoils.

And then, after you’ve been allowed an hour to sleep, Sam comes into your shared bedroom. Suspiciously not making eye contact at first. He looks at the floor as he comes in, he’s super interested in the door as he closes it and he’s eye flit over your bandages as he sits at the end of the bed.

It’s only once he’s settled there that it happens.

He raises his head to look at you and suddenly you’re staring right into the angry cataclysm that is ‘sam smash’. It’s so much worse than you ever imagined, apparently, spectators do not see the full force of this face. You’ve never noticed before how his jaw tightens to such an extent as to make his entire face look angular and ready to snap. Or the way his nostrils flare. It’s so small that you’d never have picked up on it from afar. And his eyes. They’re dark. Not like, sexy times he really wants you dark. No, they’re the deepest brown you’ve ever seen on him. His eyes have always been a spectrum but this is a new color entirely. A color so deep that it’s enough to convince you the other hues of his eyes never existed.

He opens his mouth to speak and you crack instantly. Whispering that you’re sorry and resolving to never be so stupid again.

You’ll probably be stupid again in all fairness but just never to the extent that you have to see that face again.


	14. Dean X You : Hiding from Dean

It wasn’t completely, utterly, one hundred percent, undeniably your fault that Dean had been left out in the rain a few miles from the bunker.

It really wasn’t. Maybe it was, like, fifty-fifty.

He’s the one who’d started the argument. You didn’t have a lot of big fights. Small teasing banter back and forth, sure. Sometimes that teasing would go too far and you’d both need a few hours to cool off. But big, stop the car and pull over before you both die screaming at each other in a fiery car crash fights? That didn’t happen often. In the past few years of dating, you could count the number of times on one hand and those had been apocalypse conditions. You know, periods when it’s expected that you _might_ be extra stressed. Because you both loved each other so neither of you really wanted to get to that point if you could help it.

The problem is today’s argument, as big as it was, was also fucking stupid.

You’d both been doing your least favorite activity, shopping. The last hunt you’d been on had been violent, to say the least. After an astonishingly sticky encounter with an incredibly angry ghost, or at least a large amount of the ghosts ectoplasm, you’d both been in need of replacing some wardrobe items and after a quick change had opted to stop on the way home. Get it over and done with you both figured.

Being hunters there’s really no excuse for how stupid you were, even being at the mall couldn’t realistically tick you both off to _that_ extent. Unfortunately, neither of you were using your heads. All you knew at the time was that you definitely weren’t flirting with the pretzel guy, you were literally just buying pretzels. Any extended conversation had purely been in the pursuit of extra toppings. But Dean had gone from zero to sixty faster than even Baby can manage and you’d started making quite the scene yourself insisting that he couldn’t treat you like this. As the fight moved to the car, with a portly mall cop ushering you out, things had only escalated. All those fun little teasing arguments you had from time to time were suddenly being yanked from your subconsciousness, both of you adding petty shit on top of more petty shit to fuel the flames of hostility.

Really thinking about it in hindsight you both should have figured that this wasn’t normal behavior. 

Instead, he’d pulled over and you’d both got out of the car to continue yelling in each other’s faces, on the side of the road, arms waving and two pairs of feet stubbornly planted in the ground. You’d been so distracted. You’d vented every minor annoyance you’d ever felt about each other until you were red in the face.

The next part was, well, dicey in terms of your defense.

You were so overcome with the urge to get away from him. And you’d ended up fighting a few good feet from the car. And you had terrific reaction times. Dean was strong but you were fast. Plus the idiot had left the keys in the ignition.

As soon as you’re driving away, cackling, and watching him shrink in the rearview mirror, you knew. Really deep down you sensed that this whole thing was stupid, the only problem was that realization still sat under a few hundred layers of ‘fuck you Dean Winchester’. So you kept driving until you couldn’t see him running behind anymore, which wasn’t even that far because you were probably four or five miles out from the bunker at best. When you pulled into the garage and parked this rattling breath shuddered out of you. You almost went back then but you were still too stubborn. It’s only after a shower you’d been dreaming about since ganking the ghost that you feel like the fog has been lifted. As if you’d been under some spell that you’re now realizing turned you into an insane person.

You took off in his car. You took _Baby_. Wow, you were screwed.

You’re toying with the idea of slipping on some jeans under the big shirt, of his, that you’re wearing and driving to get him but that’s when you hear it. Rain so heavy that the patter can be heard echoing around the bunker.

It makes you pace back and forth while you think it over. He’s walking home, wet and on the side of the road. He walks fast but he’s not pulling an eight-minute mile or anything. Would he be mad if you picked him up and he soaked the seats that you knew he’d only recently cleaned? Oh god, what if he left _you_ by the side of the road as payback?

There are too many variables. It makes your head spin and before you know there’s no decision to make because you hear the ominous slam of the bunker door. There’s no way it’s Sam, he’s hours away on some hunt with Eileen. Not that you need to guess at who it is because he shouts, “Y/N!”

It’s hard to tell if his voice is more or less angry, or about the same, because you take off running. You stupidly slip into your old bedroom like he won’t look there. For a split second you kind of jump from foot to foot as you try to decide where to hide. Knowing the only option is to hide.

There’s still some clothes in your closet because it was easier to not move them all. Flannel takes up a lot of space apparently if you’re sharing with a Winchester. You’ve just slipped behind clothes you haven’t worn in a while when you hear his footsteps in the corridor outside. You can taste your heart in your throat. You fucked up. He did too no doubt but you, _possibly_ , went over the line.

The door to the room opens sooner than you expected. So, he didn’t even bother checking your shared bedroom. Damn him and his hunter instincts.

He doesn’t say anything as he toys with you, pretending to look elsewhere other than the closet that you’re so _obviously_ in. That might be worse. He’s not even bothering taunting you.

When the closet door does open and he pushes back the clothes in front of you the only obvious reaction is to smile up at him. Smile as regretfully and apologetically as possible. Hit him with the big doe eyes too and maybe sink into your shoulders a bit. Be as cute as possible and remind him why he loves you.

Assuming he still loves you.

At first, his jaw is set and his eyes burning into you. “I’m fucking soaked.”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry…” You mumble looking at the water pooling at his feet.

“You’re damp.” He interrupts with an observation.

“Yeah, I took a shower.”

It’s only as he offers a hand out for you to take that you see the corner of his mouth twitch, “so you’re damp but you’re not soaked? Yet anyway.”


	15. Dean x You: Meeting Dean and he's pointing a gun at you

You knock on the room number Sam had given you and wait anxiously. As a general rule of thumb asking for help is not in your rulebook. Although you resist pressing your ear to the door, to make sure people are inside obviously, you don’t need to. The wood is thin enough that you hear the familiar sound of a safety being clicked back. This couldn’t be Sam’s room, Sam wouldn’t…

The door opens quickly in the next second and standing there is a man as broad-shouldered as Sam but not quite as tall. Not to say this guy doesn’t have some height but Sam is _tall_. His crisp white shirt is rolled up at the sleeves revealing arms that are, well, the kind of arms that you wouldn’t mind being wrapped up in. Not even getting started on those fingers. 

Unfortunately, it’s those intriguingly thick digits that are pointing a gun in your direction, a gun you happen to know doesn’t have the safety on.

“Woah dude, dial it back. That’s Y/N.” Sam’s voice comes from somewhere inside but it’s difficult to see past the force of nature that is Dean. 

“That’s Y/N?” Green eyes boggle at you as if he’s surprised, what he’d been expecting you’re not sure but you’d be interested to know if you’re a good surprise or bad surprise. That’s a question for later maybe. 

You raise one hand to point at the weapon in his hand, “you wanna holster that Tex? Or at least point it somewhere else?”

His grin is borderline shy when he realizes his gun is still pointed at you and effortlessly snaps the safety back in place, stowing it behind him. “So, you’ve got the info on the demon we’re hunting?” 

You purse your lips at him as you walk past him into the dimly lit room, letting it linger so that Sam can feel the tail end of it too, “actually you’re the boys with the knife that can kill the demon _I’m_ hunting.” 

“They always want us for our weapons Sammy.”

You spin quickly to face him, and dear lord what a face it is, all the better in the soft light, a thousand freckles spattered on his face like stars, “not the one you think.” Your eyes glance down to his crotch and back up again with a wink. Obviously, you wouldn’t mind getting acquainted with that weapon at all but you’ve only been here thirty seconds, probably best not to let him know that so soon.


	16. Dean x You: Picking a Puppy

He’s kneeling down looking at the dog he’s already circled back to three times while you try, and fail, not to get annoyed.

He ignores your sigh and then he ignores your huff until eventually, you use your words, “if you want him so much then just say so and we’ll take him.”

You’re tired, bored, and hungry. Not a good combination.

Dean cocks his head at the dog before he looks up at you from his position in front of the cage. He’s pretty much unphased by your attitude and still appears to be fully involved in the doggy decision process, “just want to make sure. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes with a hand on your hip, stretching your neck like it might stop you from murdering him. “I told you I don’t care anymore, please just pick one so we can go home.”

Something in what you said finally bothers him and you notice the change. He stands up to full height and for a moment there’s a flash of annoyance across his face, “this was _your_ idea sweetheart.”

Now that makes you mad. “Yes Dean, it was my idea. When it was fun. When we were coming here to play with cute dogs and pick one out to take home and love forever. But you’ve been at this now for nearly two hours and I’m pretty sure they think we’re casing the joint. It stopped being fun a _long_ time ago!”

“A dog is for life, I want to make sure we get the right one.” He looks at his shoes and in the time it takes for him to glance down you feel like the shittiest person in existence. Here is your ridiculous, badass boyfriend, also the biggest dork you know, wasting a whole afternoon trying to make sure he picks the right dog because they’re going to be a part of your family. And you’re snapping at him for taking too long.

You take the hand from your hip, hopefully, a sign of peace, and run it over his shoulder. You can feel him relax under your touch and you realize how much tension he was holding onto. “I’m sorry, my bad. I’m probably just hangry. Tell me about this guy then. I mean he’s obviously handsome but do we think he’s Winchester material?”


	17. Sam x You: In Sam You Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Panic Attacks

Sam only glances at you once before he starts the engine. Your chest is heaving as deep, rolling breaths shudder through you. You don’t even realize you’re trembling yet. He can see it but you’re still distracted by the adrenaline high of killing a bad guy. You haven’t stopped for long enough to know what’s already happening.

Sam knows but there’s nothing he can do about it right now because it hasn’t really started.

He drives you home, back to the bunker, checking every so often. The roads are wet and require some of his attention so when he can’t look at you he listens or asks you an innocuous question. Your mind is still running too fast. Your answers are given too quickly to be normal conversation. He knows it’ll happen when you’re home and safe but he still can’t be too careful, so he’s absently observing all the way home like he has a sixth sense tuned only to you.

The bunker is cold and empty since everyone is out on their own hunts. It’s all but a shell until he wakes the place up. He flips on the softest lights and turns up the heat. You’ll need to stay warm.

“Oh my god. Oh my fucking god!”

Sam had been in the kitchen making chamomile tea, preemptively of course, when he hears you. Luckily he’s not holding anything at that precise second because his body reacts instantly, long strides out of the room without a second thought.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” his tone is absolute but not angry. It’s authoritative, assuring but not frightening.

You’re on the floor now. He missed the moment that you crumbled. He’s normally there to catch you. Instead, you’re already on your knees, palms flat against the floor looking for purchase that you’ll never find in the concrete while you gasp desperately for air.

The sight still stops his heart for a moment, just not his feet. He’s well practiced at not getting lost in himself when you need him.

His touch is light but somehow he maneuvers you back until you’re sitting on your calves. He’s behind you. Curled around you in a way that doesn’t crowd you. His legs stretch out either side, his hands rubbing the length of your arms slowly. He’s keeping you still without caging you in.

“That’s it Y/N/N. Nice and slow for me. In and out. Listen to me, I’ve got you.”

It takes around ten minutes this time. Ten minutes of soothing whispers and you clamoring against your own skin. You’re getting better at this and he murmurs his assurances that you can handle it. Your heart is still pounding, you’re still dizzy, still anxious. But slowly your lungs can function again.

“I almost died.” You voice the loudest thought still swirling around your head.

One of his hands is wrapped around yours. The pads of his fingers making circles on the inside of your wrist. He’s concentrating on finding your pulse and then matching its speed. Sam knows that if he does it carefully, decreases his movements just right, your heart will slow down with him.

“You didn’t though. You were amazing, I’m so proud of you.” Later he’ll tell you that you saved his life tonight but that’s too much to put on you right now, he only tells you as much as you need to hear to quell the panic ebbing at you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, your back pushed against his chest and his chin resting against your forehead. He knows by now that this is a good sign, you’re on your way back to him.

Sam knows all of this because he’s helped you through this before. He endures his own discomfort at seeing you like this because he loves you. And as you sigh against him he smiles to himself because he knows that for you to trust him like this, you love him too.


	18. Dean x You: You Might Think

The bar is hazy, the kind of muddy air that settles late in the evening. Not that Dean has a problem with the atmosphere. It was one of the many bars he considered local. Not a long drive from the bunker and he only resents half of the idiots in there.

He’s nursing another beer. It isn’t late yet and today hasn’t been as much of a shitshow as usual. Maybe he’d hit the hard stuff later or maybe he’d stick to beer. He might go as far as calling it a good day.

He hasn’t paid much attention to anyone else around him tonight. He hasn’t hustled those douchebags hogging the pool table, he could have but he hasn’t. He hasn’t flirted with one of the women huddled at the table in the corner, the ones who giggled when he passed by earlier. He’s aware of everyone, of course, but he’s not looking for human interaction tonight. In fact, that’s why he’s not drinking in the bunker. There are too many people there. Even with half of Sam’s merry men out on hunts, there’s still more people than he cares for.

“You’re making it really hard not to stab you.”

Dean doesn’t exactly listen in on other people’s conversations but there are things that he hears whether he wants to or not. Like that. He shoots a sideways glance down the bar to see a woman sitting there with, he notes, a generous serving of something amber in the glass her hand is wrapped around. She must be having a bad day. And then there’s this guy leaning in her direction lecherously, he just might be the cause. Dean can’t hear what he’s hissing at her but he can read her body language well enough to know that she wants jack squat to do with him.

She doesn’t seem like she needs help though, her threat sounded serious enough, so Dean plans on finishing his beer before he goes over there and helps anyway. Gives her a chance to send the guy packing first.

But then he’s slow. Too slow for what happens next. Maybe it’s that hazy bar air that stops him smelling something familiar till it’s too late.

She says, “fuck it,” loud enough that he turns his head properly and then everything kind of happens in front of him. Her arm cuts through the air quickly enough that he barely sees her move, but Dean still gets a good look at where the blade had been hidden in her jacket. The creep barely twitches before there’s a knife in his chest.

Not that he’s a normal bar creep because as soon as the blade lands the demon, the fucking demon Dean hadn’t noticed, glows orange. Then he’s slumped on the floor, dead.

She keeps moving quickly, pulling back her angel blade from the now empty meatsuit and making her way towards him.

“Christo.” He smiles because he knows his eyes won’t change and she gets this angry wrinkle in the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god. Dude you’ve gotta get out of here, now.”

“Huh?” He quips, suppressing a smirk. She thinks he’s a clueless civilian and it’s the cherry on top of his not terrible day. She’s grabbing at his shoulder, fingers bunched in his collar and dragging him to his feet. It’s kind of freaking hilarious, this woman with a bloody knife in one hand, trying to save his ass with the other.

She groans in frustration for the lumbering mass that Dean becomes in her care and then she groans again, this time because of the fist that catches her jaw. She stumbles, landing with the bar pressing awkwardly into her back so that she’s almost laying down. “Fuck me.”

He almost makes a joke, opens his mouth to say it too just before she jumps up and retaliates. Her fist lands hard enough that the demon, one of the women he’d seen giggling earlier, falls on her ass across the dusty wooden floor. Then her eyes are on him again, annoyed, “look I don’t have time to explain I just need you to get outside before you get hurt.”

“Me? Hurt?” Ok. He’s playing dumb. Too dumb. But he’s already seen the three demons still standing, well one’s on her ass, he thinks he’s got time for a little fun.

“Holy fu- just, get out of here. They’re demons. Real life demons that’ll kill _you_ if you don’t get out the way so I can kill _them_.”

It’s hard not to laugh. Hard but not impossible. He creases his brow with fake concern painted on his face, “what-uh-excuse me-what?”


	19. Dean x You: Baby Brain

“Sir, you can’t just park here.”

His hand is holding yours gently, feather-light as you shimmy your way out of the front seat, but his voice is hostile as he shouts back at the meter maid, “the hell I can’t.”

“Sir, this parking is reserved for…”

“Me. It’s mine. Leave it alone deputy doofus.”

“Dean!” You scold in an attempt to calm him down. That is until another wave of pain laps at you. Tight pressure and cramping muscles that consume your focus completely. You squeeze Dean’s hand as if cutting off the circulation to his fingers will stop the contraction. Which is a dumb move because you like his fingers. He does good work with those. As it finally fades into a dull ache you unclench your jaw and pant for air since you forgot to breathe, “get Sam to move the car.”

He nods, unphased that he’s lost all feeling in his left hand, and tosses the keys to Sam with his right. “Sammy move the car.”

Sam doesn’t argue. Neither of them argues with you anymore. You might say it’s one of the nice things about pregnancy except you’ve kind of earned the special treatment since you’ve got to push an actual human being out of you. And soon.

He puts you in a wheelchair the second you’re inside the door, a wheelchair he promptly runs over someone’s foot with as he rushes you towards the front desk. “Outta the way jackass!” is barked in the direction of the hapless soul who happened to be standing in a hospital corridor.

You can’t even yell at Dean, or offer the victim a useless apology as you’re wheeled away because another contraction has you gripping the arms of the chair and ignoring everything else.

“Sorry, erm, Mr Morrissey. I’m not sure we have your wife’s file?” The nurse at front desk squeaks at his imposing form.

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

“Dean?” You try to interrupt but he shakes his hand through the air as if to say he’s fixing it.

“Sorry it’s just I can’t see anything here for a Y/N Morrissey but I’ll check again.” The poor woman fumbles over her keyboard to triple check while Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, which is never good. It’s a sign of the oncoming storm.

“Dean…” you try to start.

He holds another hand up to you, “shhh baby, breathe through it.”

Your contraction has passed again but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Listen, Chrissy,” he squints at her name tag and slaps his lips together like the name is bitter in his mouth. “I’ve been getting my ass kicked all year. This woman, god help me, is a walking nightmare. Two weeks ago I found her on top of a ladder trying to reach a high shelf which, let me tell you, we have _high_ ass shelves. Do you know how much convincing it took to get her here at all? She wanted me to knock her out and just hope the baby came out on its own. The hormones are making her crazy and then she makes me crazy. Don’t even get me started on the cravings. I mean I love her but honestly, I can’t deal with it anymore. I’m going nuts. So, I need you to find her file and get this baby out of her today or I swear I’m going to lose it and it’ll be nine months of ugly.”

“DEAN!”

His shoulders tense like he forgot you were there. Or like he thought standing at the desk stopped you from hearing him. Either way, he remembers your presence now. He turns around slowly with a sheepish smile slapped on his face.

“Medical is under Johnson, you dick.”


	20. Dean x You: Just One Drink

“Can I buy you a drink?” You look in the direction of the voice and are met with a cocky smile and green eyes. This guy is standing there all flannel and denim, whiskey and scruff, and you should probably say no. You’ve had a shitty day, week even, and you were drinking alone on purpose. You already said no to Richie tonight, although his attempt to hit on you is more of a weekly annoyance. Then there’s this guy. He’s handsome with a touch of arrogant and maybe he’ll be worth the effort but you suppose you’ll only find out by talking to him.

“I should warn you I’m in a terrible mood.”

He cocks his leg over the stool next to you and holds two fingers up to the barman, Danny, ordering that drink that you never formally accepted. “I’m sorry to hear that, anything I can do to help?”

You laugh a little finishing the drink you already had, “I bet I can guess what you think will help.”

You hadn’t felt his eyes on your earlier but when he looks you up and down now it’s a physical sensation. Like it’s his hands grazing over your skin rather than just his eyes. His tongue darts outs over his bottom lip, which forces you to notice how full and inciting it is as he counters, “I bet you can’t.”

Smile, take a gulp of your drink, don’t get lost in the promise of his words. It’s simple enough instructions from your brain but takes a mammoth effort to actually follow through.

“You haven’t even asked me my name yet.”

“Doesn’t matter, sweetheart.”

Guys like him call girls like you sweetheart so they don’t get confused. It’s a red flag and yet, as you lean your head to rest on your hand, smiling at him and his jaw that makes your knees weak, you couldn’t care less.

“I could be a serial killer? Or some crazy cat lady.”

He smirks, “you rank serial killer and crazy cat lady together? Good to know. I think I’ll be ok either way.”

You shake your head, grinning, “you think you’re hot shit, huh? What you think just like that we’re getting out of here?”

“I think I’m adorable.” He pouts at you to illustrate his point. You can’t argue with his assessment. “But we don’t have to go anywhere _yet_ , I can enjoy your company right here. ‘Sides we’ve got these to drink first.”

Timing seems to be his thing since that’s when Danny comes back and two glasses are set in front of you. This guy is as smooth as silk and you’re about to tell him as much except you take a sip of the drink in front of you first. The oaky flavor lingers on your tongue as the warmth rolls down your throat. It reminds you of an old country song your mom used to listen to.

“You’re a smooth as this Tennessee whiskey, you know.” You laugh at your own joke, even if he doesn’t, “come on then cowboy, hit me with a name.”

He knocks his glass back, swallowing the measure with ease. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he raises his empty glass in a meaningless toast, “Dean.”

“Y/N,” you reply finishing the shot he’d bought you.

“Pleasure to meet you Y/N. You ready to get out of here now or do I need to keep sweet talking you?”

The glass is heavy as you drop it back on the bar with a thud, “that’s it huh? Just one drink Dean?”

There’s a beat. It hangs between you like a barrier until Dean chases it away by leaning in. If you thought he was irresistible before, at arm’s length, now it’s all you can do not to start touching him. His lips are drawing you in like a magnet when he mutters his promises again, “the drink isn’t what’s going to make your day better honey.”


	21. No Pairing: Pull my Finger

The place is quiet when the door slams behind you. Not that you’d been expecting a surprise welcome home party, you’d only been gone three days. A party would have been nice sure but you’re not _expecting_ one.

It’s just quiet and at first, you wonder if anyone is even home. It’s only as you get further into the bunker, into the library to be more specific, that you find signs of life.

Sam is hunched over a book. Perhaps that’s not weird on its own until you walk up behind him. It’s not unheard of for Sam to be so engrossed in a book that he doesn’t hear you. But over his shoulder, you see that Sam is not fascinated by the written word. Oh no. He’s drawing in the big, important lore book. He’s got three crayons from god knows where, although they’re all snapped in half so technically he has six now, and he’s doodling over the very old, very valuable pages.

“Sam!” You snap, reacting rather than stopping to question his behavior.

He whips his head around, his face all wide-eyed fear, “it’s not my fault!”

“It’s not your-? I just watched you do it!” Somehow your hand has ended up on your hip, all on its own.

The problem is Sam is still in his giant Sam body so you presume to be talking to the adult version of him. Even after watching him doodle in a lore book you don’t connect the dots straight away.

“Dean wouldn’t let me play with him!” He huffs with a stamp of his foot, the flail of his arms makes his hair shake around his face.

“What has that got to do with-” Your brain catches up mid-sentence and the ridiculousness of this conversation stops you in your tracks. You don’t want to believe what you think is happening is actually happening, but realistically three days is more than enough time for this kind of insane crap to occur.

“Sam?” You start gently. He’s gullible like only a child would be, immediately believing your mood has changed in seconds. “Can you tell me where Dean is?”

He jumps up from the floor where he’d been sitting cross-legged, the book clatters on the concrete as it carelessly falls from his lap. He’s more concerned with being helpful than taking care of the old book. He grabs your hand with a wide smile on his face and starts pulling you to the kitchen.

All you want is for Dean to actually be Dean so you allow yourself a spark of hope that he’s in the kitchen cooking like normal. Obviously, you’re asking too much. You should know by now that your life isn’t ever that simple.

Dean is sitting at the table with a glass of chocolate milk. It’s apparently homemade because there is spilled milk and big chocolate syrup handprints over one of the counters. Cas is sitting with him, with his own glass, and they’re giggling.

Two grown men, technically one grown man and one grown angel, drinking chocolate milk and giggling.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that. They can giggle and boost their calcium intake all they like. It’s just the fact that Dean is also teaching Cas to make fart noises in the palm of his hand. Cas hasn’t _quite_ mastered the skill but he is practically crying with laughter as Dean expertly makes the noise louder every time.

Sam starts shaking your arm that he’s still holding and whining, actually fucking whining, “they said I couldn’t play because I’m a butthead!

You try to resist rolling your eyes but it happens anyway. You’re a good person, you save lives on the regular. Did you really deserve this?

“Dean? Did you call your brother a butthead?”

Dean was apparently a punk ass kid because he puffs his chest out and sticks his chin high in the air, which you imagine would be adorable on a four-year-old. “Yeah! He is a butthead.”

Defiant little shit.

Cas, unhelpfully, clamps his hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing. Serving only to encourage Dean. If you were going to fix this you would first need to get these idiots under control. “That’s not very nice. Apologize to him, right now.”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ and your hand twitches to punch him. You shouldn’t since he apparently has the mental capacity of a child. Doesn’t mean you don’t think about punching him.

“Apologise or go to your room.”

“Fine by me!” He yells, kicking his chair back as he stands up. At full height, it’s even harder to have this conversation. Instead of apologizing he sticks his tongue out at Sam and rips his glass from the table preparing to storm off.

“Leave it. Since you won’t be nice.” You have no idea where this authoritarian came from, it’s working though. And taking away his chocolate milk seems like a mom thing to do.

He slams the glass down on the table, which splashes everywhere, and looks at you with a face full of childish anger. Cas gets up to follow him, albeit much more carefully, as if you won’t notice him if he’s slow enough. “Nah uh. Cas, you stay there.” Dean stomps off all the louder, heavy stamps of his feet for being denied his milk and his friend.

As you hear a door slam in the distance you finally drop the mommy facade, “for fuck’s sake guys really? I go away for three days.”

Cas stumbles up to you and takes your hand. At first, you think he’s going to pat it comfortingly and offer some of that patented Cas wisdom. Again, you’re not that lucky.

You just don’t have it in you to stop him pressing his lips to your palm and blowing the biggest raspberry he can.


	22. Dean x You: Is It Too Late?

The first time he goes to check in on her is three days after she walked out. It’s not even, fuck, it’s not even that long. He’d had a job. A goddamn milk run comes up hours after she leaves so he has no choice but to wait. Actually, it’s less than a day, less than an evening. It’s an hour.

He convinces himself that it’s to get the picture out of his head. The last image he has is her leaving. With dried tear tracks down her face, eyes red and puffy, and that quivering lip he’d kiss away. And the bags, all her things packed in three bags, the most he’s ever seen her with. She’s not going somewhere for a weekend or coming with him on a hunt. She’s leaving, for good. Everything is going with her this time.

It makes sense that he needs to see her one more time. If he sees her happy he can forget her. He can replace the image that burns his chest with heat and instead put a happy polaroid in its place. Of her doing something mundane and safe. All the things he won’t, well, can’t give her.

He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve to make himself feel better by spying on her like a creep. He doesn’t deserve anything after the screaming. Roaring words in her direction like he’s firing bullets from a gun. Watching each one cut a fresh hole in her soul and carrying on till there are more holes than there are pieces of her left. And firing more. Thinking he’s right, he’s doing what’s right, that somehow any of it was right. Then there’s the silence. The hours spent ignoring her because that was easier. Easier than apologizing and trying to be happy.

Happy is an illusion anyway. He never has it for long and when he does it’s like trying to keep hold of water in the palm of his hands. It always slips through gaps he’s not aware of. She was rarer than that, more difficult to keep. She was like bottling lightning.

That first time he goes to check on her she’s staying in this motel, he figures while she looks for an apartment. It’s only been three days, these things take time. She’s not happy yet, he can see that a mile off. He figures that’ll take time too. Yeah. He’ll have to come back and keep an eye on her until she is. That’s when he can walk away for good.

A week after she’s left he wakes up with a smile on his face. He’s hugging the pillow she slept on with his face buried in it. The smell of her ignites his lungs. It’s everywhere, permeating every pore, every synapse in his head fires. And she’s going to walk through the door any second. She’s going to wander back from the bathroom and demand her pillow back and he’ll tell her to go to hell. He keeps her pillow and she gets another hour of sleep on top of him in protest. It’ll be the same trade-off it always is until they wake up again as a mangled mess of limbs.

The door doesn’t open because she’s not there. It’s just him, his cotton sheets and the ghost of her. Like she’s not curled up in front of the TV when he gets back from a supply run. Or she doesn’t come back from a jog with Sam and jump on him, sweaty and sticky and his.

Another week and smell of her starts fading. But his memories don’t.

He’d convinced himself this was for the best. But who’s best? He’s living this half-life now. He’s realizing how intricately she was woven in his everything. Even when he was on hunts she was there in texts and calls.  Dean doesn’t do this, this sappy sadness that hovers over him like a cloud. He drinks his feelings and buries them as deep as they’ll go.

What if there’s no dirt to dig into anymore, no more space in the graveyard of his psyche to hide the shit. Or maybe it’s that he still goes to her whenever he has a spare hour. The GPS is still on her phone anyway. That means something. She knows it’s there. She wants him to follow.

Not like this though. If she wants him it’s properly. It’s him knocking on the door and finally saying that he’s sorry. Not him following her and waiting for her to smile from the edges of her new life. Not him watching her and only living for those moments when he does.

He should let her go. But she’s not happy yet. She’s not living the life he pushed her away for. Why isn’t she happy yet?

Sam pretends he doesn’t know what’s going on at first. He knows nothing that he can say will change anything. But then after a few months, he’s sick of missing his brother because she took him with her. He’s sick of watching Dean leave like Sam doesn’t know where he’s going. Dean forgets that Sam knows how to check GPS too and it’s easy to see which marker on the map Dean is following.

He tells Dean to let it go. It had to be said so he says it. There’s no fight in Dean like Sam was expecting. No fireworks or rage. He sighs this silent chuckle. His lips strain to smile even though his face has forgotten how and there’s this tiny nod to his head, “I know Sammy. Don’t you think I know.”

Two days ago he saw her smile while talking on her phone. So, now he knows she’s happy, or on her way. He can move on.

Right?


	23. Dean x You: Hungry (Smut-ish)

The rope isn’t causing the problem, it’s the position you’re in. Your shoulders are pulled back, not enough to cause injury, just enough to render you useless. To push out your chest. And at this point to cause an ache in the spot between your shoulder blades. If it was numb you might worry. The ache is more annoying than feeling nothing, it’s an itch you want to scratch, a thing on your long list of wants. Although annoying as it is the feeling grounds you in the room.

You’d started today in some semblance of clothing, underwear at least and an old shirt he’d peeled off of you. By now you’ve been played with enough that you’re naked and have been for some time. The room probably wouldn’t be cold in clothes but bound as you are, naked as you are, there’s the lightest of chills in the air. The temperature causes goosebumps over the sensitive areas of your body because there’s nothing to hide. Every inch of you exposed and on display.

The door opens and closes but you keep your eyes to the floor, you’ll look at him when he wants you to look.

“How you doin’ princess?” He runs two calloused fingers along the length of your jaw as he asks. His voice still resonates with the warm power he reserves for this room. He always starts with words that sound sweet like honey, eventually, they become delicious and bitter.

“Good, thank you, sir.”

He makes a noncommittal noise. He’s probably pleased you’ve finished talking back. He’s always so satisfied when you’ve learned your lesson and you have. Your still glowing ass begs you to behave. Still, you should know better than to guess. Presuming to know what he’s thinking got you in this position in the first place.

“Still green?”

His fingers dance over the edges of the rope where they meet your skin. He circles you, checking you while he waits for your confirmation.

The itch on your back disappeared when he walked in. Everything disappeared when he walked in. That makes the answer easy.

“Green, sir.”

He brings your chin up to look at him and gives you an opportunity to take in his wolfish grin. He looks animalistic to the point where you’re not sure if it’s fear or excitement making your toes curl under you.

You’re not sure how this started anymore, these games you play. The start isn’t important, it’s abstract and distant. The point isn’t how this started at all, the point is it did. And now you’d sit here presenting yourself to him like this even with all your binds cut away.

“You sure? Sure, I can’t get you anything?”

You know better than to answer. You’re waiting for the punchline and you wait silently. Eyes ahead. Keeping your anticipation hidden in the slick between your thighs.

He steps in front of you again and keeps your eyes locked with his while his fingers unbuckle his belt. He has it down to a fine art, the flick of his wrist, pulling the leather from the loops in one swift movement. The sound is like a whip being born.

He shrugs the flannel off next and you know not to break eye contact but god you want to. You want to take your fill of his broad shoulders wrapped up in a tight cotton undershirt. You never tire of looking at him, in or out of this room.

“You know the rules, you gotta ask for it. If you want it you gotta use that pretty mouth of yours and beg.”

Your mouth feels empty now that he’s mentioned it. Not just because he’s pulled that cotton shirt over his head and tossed it away like it never mattered. The words he wants you to say will only fill you up for a second. You want something heavier on your tongue than pleading, you need something that will make your jaw ache.

“Please sir, I’m hungry. It’s been hours and I need _something_.”

His thumb flicks the button on his jeans, the metal teeth of his zip clack louder than thunder as he inches it open.

“What does my little slut want?”

There are those sharp words of his. They make your stomach tighten.

He knows what you want too. He already knows and he wants you to say it.

“You sir. Your cock. Please. I need it.”

Each word is punctuated with your tongue over your lips trying to make them wet, more enticing.

His jeans get kicked off next and of course, he’s not wearing any underwear. His clothes had only been an exercise in humility while he took care of something in the bunker. They’d been temporary and you both knew it.

His strokes himself lazily, like he has all the time in the world. All the patience and control, while you’re writhing in your bonds pathetically. Knowing what’s coming and wanting it, needing it, sets you on edge. Desperation stokes a fire in you that averts any chill there ever was. All you know is Dean is towering above your kneeling form like every dirty dream you could ever want. And he’s stalling.

He chuckles, actually laughs at you as he inches closer and not close enough. His tone is borderline condescending like it isn’t his dick that’s hard and in need of attention.

“Awww. You just wanna eat.” 


End file.
